Outside
by Ninazadzia
Summary: For the majority of my freshman year, Peter Hayes was one of my best friends. But after the incident we said all of ten words to each other, and none of them were pleasant. "I would've only wound up hurting you. I guess I thought it would be easier if I pushed you away." Peter/Tris, college AU. Work-in-progress.
1. Chapter One: KKG and Sig Ep

_**Outside**_

By Ninazadzia

* * *

As far as I'm concerned, college frat parties are all the same. They're smoke filled, grody sweatboxes that merely give desperate college boys the perfect opportunity to take advantage of inebriated students. Normally I avoid Greek life and anything surrounding it like the plague. But desperate times call for desperate measures—or at least that's what Christina tells me.

"You haven't been out in_ months,_" she says emphatically. We're getting ready in her posh off-campus apartment. She artfully slicks on a layer of black eyeliner, while I pitifully tug at my lashes with my dollar store mascara. "If you're not going to socialize with the athletes anymore, you might as well make new friends."

I roll my eyes. "I can't believe we're going out together."

She shrugs. "Well, I'm not making you do anything you don't want to do. You could've said no."

"True," I mumble. "I just wish we weren't going out with a bunch of frat boys."

She laughs. "Sig Ep is only the coolest frat here, Tris. It's not like we're hanging with Zeta Psi."

"You _do _realize that frat reputations mean nothing to me, right? You might as well be talking about clothing brands, I wouldn't know the difference."

She snickers. "You can be a downer, but it's _really _refreshing to have GDI friend."

Christina interchangeably refers to me as her "God Damn Independent" friend and her "super athlete" friend. She's normally everything I despise about Tulane University in a five foot ten female: as in, she's a jappy Northeasterner who's always decked out in either designer _or_ Kappa Kappa Gamma monogrammed clothing.

But we sat next to each other for all of English 101 during our freshman year, and in spite of our differing social circles, we've been friends ever since. Like Christina would say—"You bring out the serious in me, and I bring out the fun in you."

Well. I wouldn't say Christina makes me "fun." But she is a healthy distraction, and more importantly, she's a good friend of mine. And I can definitely use a few friends right now, given my ongoing predicament with the track team.

"So what's the theme for this party?" I ask. I hold up the skimpy black number she's laid out for me.

"Black-out. It's Sig Ep's best party of the year." She starts changing into her ensemble: black leggings and a skin-tight black tan-top. "We need to get there early, they cap the party at two hundred people. Getting in after ten should be hard as it is—thank _God_ for this baby."

She kisses the blue key pendant she has around her neck, and it almost makes me gag. It's the KKG necklace, and since they're one of the "top" sororities at Tulane, it grants them access into pretty much any party on campus. Not that Christina needs that kind of credibility. Everyone on campus knows her as "Victoria's Secret Girl." She signed a contract with VS in 2013, and has been a frat sweetheart ever since.

In spite of her flaws, I'm grateful that she's taken me under her wing, at least for the night. I have a reputation of my own, and it isn't a good one.

"Are you sure this is the kind of image I want to send?"

I hold the black dress up to my body. It will fit, but it will hug every curve of my body. And given the recent developments in my relationship with Tobias, dressing more conservatively seems like a safer idea.

But Christina doesn't agree. "Why not?"

I sigh. "C'mon, Christina. You know what happened."

"You made one mistake, sweetheart. And that was before the summer! Hey," she put a hand on my shoulder, "You can't let that scandal control you for forever. Get back out there, and show everyone you're a siren that has _nothing_ to apologize for."

I took another look at the dress. _Short, tight and sequined. _If my reputation at Tulane is personified in one article of clothing, it's this dress. And I let it drive me into hiding for three months.

_You can't let that scandal control you for forever._

I turn to Christina. "Can I borrow some of your eyeliner?"

A grin stretches across her face. "That's my girl."

* * *

I've been to maybe five fraternity parties in my entire college career. While Sig Ep's black party is certainly a step up from most of them, I walk into the house with a sour taste in my mouth. _I'm too sober for this,_ I think as I walk across the main floor. As per Christina's planning, we've arrived fashionably late. The party's been in fully swing for close to an hour, and everyone in the house is comfortably drunk.

"Can we grab some beers?" I ask Christina.

She waves a hand dismissively, and then grabs me by the shoulder. "Dream a little bigger, my dear. This party isn't called 'blackout' for nothing."

With that, she grabs us both vodka sours from the bar. I groan but don't object. _Christina is only the most coveted human being in the sophomore class—plus she knows how to have a good time. Follow her advice. _

As we walk through the humid room, I recognize a few faces here and there. Uriah and Marlene, two kids in my Psych class, are hooking up in a corner. Eric is doing a keg stand, and Uriah's older brother Zeke is holding him up. People shoot me a few glances here and there, but none of them are particularly dirty. Fortunately, no one in Greek life really associates themselves with the distance team. If they know my name it's more likely because I'm friends with Christina than for any other reason.

Christina guides me to the back patio, where a few of her sisters in Kappa pass around a joint. "Cara, Shauna—you know Tris, right?"

"Right, of course!"

"Do you want a hit, sweetie?"

They plaster fake smiles across their faces. _Well, at least they're being nice to me._ It's a refreshing change, given how blatantly nasty my cross-country teammates have been to me. I do my best to force a smile. "Thanks, but I'm good."

"Tris is an athlete," Christina explains. As she rattles on about how I'm at Tulane on a full scholarship for track, I resist the urge to kick her in the shin. What was once at first a flash of recognition is now a full-on, _oh-shit-that's-right, you're-Tobias'-ex-girlfriend_ expression on Shauna and Cara's face. God bless them for having the tact to not say anything.

The second Christina pauses to catch a breath, I cut in and say, "I'll be right back. I'm gonna go grab more booze." I turn on my heel and leave the patio before she can say anything.

I love Christina to tears, but to say she misunderstands my embarrassment is an understatement. She'd been in a similar situation with her high school boyfriend as I am with Tobias, except her aftermath was completely different. While my entire old friend group had exiled me, she'd been celebrated. _That's because Christina's ex was an asshole, _I think to myself. _Everyone here respects Tobias._

I snake my way through the crowd until I come across the counter; behind it stand a handful of Sig Ep pledges, who frantically pour and hand out cups of Vat. After waiting for a few minutes, I'm eventually handed one.

_Hopefully this isn't drugged, _I think to myself. Just as I'm about to take a sip, someone knocks into me. I accidentally spill my drink all over the tall figure to my right.

"Shit!" I exclaim, "I am so sorry—"

I realize who I'm talking to, and I freeze. At the beginning of freshman year, I remember drunkenly joking to him that he bore a striking resemblance to Miles Teller. It's been almost a year since then, and he still has the same boyish brown eyes and messy dark hair.

Peter stares at me for a minute before he says anything. "What are you doing here?"

I flounder around and finally manage, "I came here with Christina."

"That's funny. I haven't seen her yet tonight."

"What are _you _doing here?"

He snorts. "What, the letters don't give it away?" He points to the letters on his shirt. "I'm in Sig Ep."

My face burns. Peter and I had only been friends during our freshman year of college, so he must've rushed Sig Ep thereafter. The fact that I don't know anything about his personal life anymore isn't surprising. After the incident, we said all of ten words to each other, and none of them were pleasant. Even after he'd been publicly outed as "the other man" and I became a pariah, he didn't have the decency to defend me.

"I should probably go find my friends."

I turn to leave, but Peter grabs my hand. "Let me at least replace your drink."

The feeling of his skin against mine sends a shock up my arm. I shake myself out of his grasp. "I don't think it's a good idea for us to be seen together," I hiss.

"Would you relax?"

"I just don't want any of my teammates finding out—"

He laughs. "You mean you don't want _Tobias _finding out, right?" He studies me for a moment before saying, "Didn't you guys break up at the start of the year? Y'know, after he called you a cheating whore and told the entire school that you'd slept with me?"

_You don't get it,_ I want to snap. And nobody does. Young couples cheat on each other all of the time, especially in a college environment. What happened between Tobias and I wasn't out of the norm—but the circumstances were.

Tobias and I have been a power couple ever since our sophomore year of high school. Both all-state track stars, our relationship extended beyond the realms of "Cutest Couple" superlatives. Everyone, and I mean _everyone_ who ran track in Northern New Jersey knew us as "the South Orange couple." And when we both committed to run for Tulane University during our senior year, the entire North Jersey athletic world was beside itself. We were "meant to be." We were the "couple of a generation."

If only they knew the truth.

"If it makes you feel any better, nobody gives a shit about that anymore," he says. He mixes three different flavors of vodka with some cranberry juice and hands it back to me. It's strong, and it burns as it goes down my throat, but at least I know it isn't drugged. "You're old news, Prior."

"Easy for you to say," I grumble. "You don't spend two hours every day with the track team."

He shrugs. "I guess that's true."

Peter leans over to make himself his own mixed drink, and I study him for a moment. This is the first time we've interacted since before the summer. Not much has changed. He's just as arrogant and smooth talking as I remember him to be, even while drunk. I laugh to myself. _He's probably just as much of a womanizer, then. _He's a good-looking guy, but it's not his looks that get him so many women.

It occurs to me that I have nothing more to say to Peter, so I start to walk away. I make it halfway through the Sig Ep house before I realize he's still on my tail.

I turn around and snap at him, "What the hell is your problem?"

"I'm sorry, Tris."

I laugh. "Really? You're sorry?"

"Yeah, I am."

I cross my arms. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?"

He sighs and runs a hand through his curly brown hair. "Listen, I know I was a douche bag to you after what happened—"

"Yeah, you were," I snap.

"I just—I didn't know what to do—"

"You could've talked to me. You could've ignored me. You could've kept screwing me, for all I cared—at least then you wouldn't have been such a colossal _asswipe_."

The venom in my voice is palpable. Because for the majority of my freshman year, Peter Hayes was one of my best friends. It was nonsensical, and I had a suspicion the entire time that our friendship wouldn't last. We only ever hung out one-on-one. His friends were nice enough to me, but all of my friends despised him. He partied and slept around too much for their liking. And I can understand why Peter might be off-putting at first, since most people only ever see that side to him.

But I got to see so much more.

"C'mon, you know what I'm like with girls." The plea in his voice is obvious. "I'm not ready for anything serious. I would've only wound up hurting you, and—well, I guess I just thought it would be easier if I pushed you away."

I laugh. "What, you think I wanted you to be my next boyfriend?"

"I could tell that you had feelings for me."

I groan. "Peter, you're delusional." I chug whatever is left of my drink, and I set it down on the countertop. "_You _were the one that had feelings for _me_."

He opens his mouth to say something, but I clamp my hand over it. "Don't you dare deny it. You told me my boyfriend was the luckiest guy in the world, and that I'm the kind of girl you're going to _marry _one day. You might be full of shit, but those weren't empty words."

He swats my hand away. "I was drunk when I said that stuff—"

"You also told me that when you're drunk, you're the most honest version of yourself."

My heart races, because I know I've got him. He doesn't say anything for a solid minute, and if confirms what I've been suspicious of for the last three months.

"Well?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He looks me in the eye for a moment, his expression somewhere in between drunk and conflicted. And then he does exactly what I expect him to do—he leans in and kisses me. He wraps one arm around my waist and cups my face with the other, and it takes all of my willpower not to reciprocate. The worst part is that I want to. I want _so _badly to give into him.

I'd realized a long time ago that I had feelings for Peter Hayes stronger feelings than I'd ever had for Tobias. Tobias and I were together out of convenience. We were both attractive, regimented people who were more than capable of sustaining a relationship. And we were both on all-state track stars at the same high school. It only made sense that we would be boyfriend and girlfriend.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Peter and I make zerosense. He's a washed up man-whore, who goes out four nights a week and brings a different girl home every night. Even in my heyday I would party maybe once a month, and have only ever slept with two people. We're opposites, and we know it.

But he knows me, and I know him. Because behind an exterior of constant inebriation and fornication, and, okay, maybe even blatant rudeness, Peter is nothing more than a scared boy. For someone who loves his family as much as he does and whose father is as sick as his is, he goes to school much too far from home. I would know—one night, he sobbed on my shoulder about it for two hours. And that wasn't the only time.

Maybe we aren't "meant to be" like Tobias and I were, and maybe we aren't compatible. But Peter Hayes needs some stability in his life—and apparently, he thinks I'm it.

_Except I'm not stable. _Not even close. And the prospect of having him back in my life is slightly terrifying.

With that thought in mind, I shove him off of me. He looks back and forth, from my lips to my eyes and back again, as if what he's just done hasn't fully registered.

"I'm sorry," he says, almost instantaneously.

"Peter," I say slowly, with my heart racing, "If you want to sleep with me, you're going to have to try a _lot_ harder than that."

And before I can think much more about it, I turn around and walk out of the Sig Ep door. This time he doesn't follow me.

* * *

"_**Look at what you've done**_

_**Stand still, falling away from me**_

_**When it takes so long**_

_**Fire's out, what do you want to be?**_

_**I'm holding on**_

_**Myself was never enough for me**_

_**Gotta be so strong**_

_**There's a power in what you do**_

_**Now every other day I've been watching you …"**_

**-Outside, **Calvin Harris feat. Ellie Goulding

* * *

**A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this! Thanks so much to the lovely flying-one (aka Charlotte) for beta'ing this. If you haven't read her one-shot _Winter Dies_, drop what you're doing and read it RIGHT NOW because holy shit is it wonderful.**

**Let me know if you want me to continue this! As of right now I think I'm going to keep it as a one-shot, but I have an idea brewing with this fic.**

**xx Nina**


	2. Chapter Two: Blackouts and English 101

**Outside**

By Ninazadzia

**August, 2014**

The morning after the Sigma Ep party, I wake up with the world's worst headache. _Jesus Christ,_ I think, _I must've forgotten to pour myself some water_. I squint as bright, early morning lights shine through the window and burn my eyes. I haven't been hungover in close to three months. It isn't something I've missed.

I get up to grab myself a bottle of Gatorade, and nearly trip as the events of last night come rushing back to me. Peter Hayes. The vat. The kiss. I shake my head, an undercurrent of "no, no, no" spoken under my breath, and proceed to check my phone.

_Okay, shit._ Seven texts and two missed calls from Christina, and—my heart plummets—a voicemail from Peter. _It's too early for me to address this right now._ I throw my phone against the pillow and stare at the wall in front of me.

It occurs to me then that I don't remember anything after the Sig Ep party. The vat must've been stronger than I thought it was, and I probably blacked out after the cup Peter handed me. My heart races as I desperately try to recall the walk home from Sig Ep, getting back into my dorm, and putting myself to sleep. I draw a blank.

_You wound up in your own bed,_ I reassure myself. _There isn't a stranger sleeping next to you, and there isn't any vomit on the comforter. _I hold on to those thoughts as I shakily go through the motions of washing my face, brushing my teeth, and putting in my contacts. I'm safe now, but I'll have to do some sleuthing in regards to how late I was out, how I got home and who I was with. So I resist the urge to push it off, grab my phone and check my texts from Christina.

_11:24, where the hell r u_

_ 11:51, hellooooooooo?_

_ 12:45, sig ep got busted so I had to leave. Text me asap_

_ 1:22, holy shit I just ran into peter_

_ 1:23, he told me everything_

_ 1:30, goddammit tris I really hope ur ok. if I don't hear from you by morning I'm sending out a search party_

And then, at 10:23 AM (aka ten minutes ago), _okay the search has officially begun._

I sigh and immediately call Christina. She can be a handful when we go out, and more often than not I'm the one who moms her. It's nice to see that she has my back when the situation is reversed.

"You're alive, thank God," she answers.

"Yeah, I am. I'm surprised you're up so early."

"Are you kidding?" she shouts, her voice laden with exasperation. "I barely slept last night! You totally disappeared at Sig Ep and weren't answering your phone. I was freaking the fuck out."

"I know, I know," I say. In between the headache and fatigue I'm in no mood to fight Christina. Besides, she's right. "I'm really sorry. Peter and I got into an argument and I stormed out. I should've found you."

"Yeah, where the hell did you go?"

I groan and run a hand through my knotted nest of hair. "I wish I could tell you. I completely blacked out after that."

Christina's voice softens. "Holy shit, for real?"

"Yeah, my tolerance isn't what it used to be. The vat hit me harder than I thought it would."

"Are you okay? How are you feeling?"

I laugh. "I feel like death right now, but it's nothing a cup of coffee and a few breakfast sausages can't fix." I flop myself back into bed, and officially decide to postpone my responsibilities in favor of some sleuthing. "And I somehow made it home safely."

I can hear a sigh of relief from the other line. "Good. As long as you're okay." Christina clears her throat, and the second she does I know exactly what direction our conversation will take. "So after Sig Ep, I ran into Peter at The Palms."

_As if I don't have enough things to worry about._ "Were The Palms a good scene?" I ask very evenly. It's a local bar that Tulane students frequent on the weekend.

"Don't try and change the subject!" I'm sure she's rolling her eyes right now. "He kissed you! And apparently, you ran away."

"I know, Christina. I was there." I pop two Advil into my mouth.

"So…?" she drawls.

"So what?"

"How'd you feel? Was it good?"

Color runs to my face. Given my mental state last night, I've barely had a chance to wrap my head around Peter myself. "I really don't want to talk about it," I manage.

"Are you sure?" she prods.

"Yes, Christina." I fixate my gaze at a crack on the wall. "I'm fine. I promise."

"Okay," she says uneasily. "Let me know if you need anyone to talk to though."

I nod. "I will." And before she can guilt-trip me into divulging every detail, I hang up.

So Christina is a dead-end. I look at my phone, wonder if now would be a good time to listen to Peter's voicemail, and then laugh at myself. My head feels like it's about to split open and I haven't eaten in at least twelve hours. I have more important things to attend to.

I throw my hair into a haphazard bun and grab my student ID. I look around my room for anything else I might need, but the rumbling in my stomach begs me to hurry. The weakness doesn't hit me until I'm out the door, when I knock my shoulder against the doorframe and practically fall to the ground. "Arrrrgh!" I yelp. Thankfully I don't have a roommate, so I don't need to worry about being quiet for someone else's sake.

I told Peter over lunch one day that I live in a single, and he joked that my room must've been the designated sex cave, given Amar—Tobias' roommate—had a serious boyfriend and they were constantly together. I just shrugged and very bluntly told him, "Tobias isn't really a horndog." And then Peter made fun of my lackluster sex life, winked at me and said, "If you ever need any help in that department, I've got you covered." And we both laughed it off and went back to eating our food.

Peter made jokes like that all of the time. I didn't think much of them at first, since I made it very clear to him that we could only be friends.

A cup of black coffee, an omelet, and four strips of bacon later, I finally feel good enough to listen to Peter's voicemail. My heart pounds out of my chest as I hit the play button, because as twisted as this is, deep down I hope it's some kind of confession. I may have flat-out turned him down last night, but it wasn't because I wanted to.

"Tris, it's Peter. I just ran into Christina—where the hell are you? Call me when you get this."

And that was it. I put my phone down and try to convince myself that whatever the pit in my stomach is, it isn't disappointment.

_So Peter's a dead-end too, _I think. I groan and bury my face in my hands. This isn't me. I've never blacked out before, and I've always made sure to stick with people when I went out. The fact that I left a party alone and have no idea where I went or who I was with is completely out of character. And to make matters worse, I have _no _leads or clues—

And that's when I notice that this entire time, a hot pink wristband has been scratching my facing.

Bars in New Orleans are typically eighteen or nineteen plus, and they discriminate who is legal to drink with wristbands. I'm only twenty and I don't have a fake ID, so I have no idea how I got this. But at least I have a clue about my whereabouts now.

I rack my brain and list off all of the local bars. I could count out F&amp;Ms, because it's one of the few bars in Uptown New Orleans that's twenty-one plus and doesn't wristbands. I could've gone to Quills, but I think that's unlikely since I've only been there once, it's never a good scene, and it's a far walk from Sig Ep. That leaves me with The Palms and The Boot, which are nineteen and eighteen plus respectively, and are both _very _close to the Sig Ep house.

The Boot and the Palms never use the same color wristband. Christina was at the Palms last night, and since she has a fake ID that means she got a wristband. I shoot Christina a text. _What color were the Palms wristbands last night?_

She replies immediately. _Green. Why?_

I quickly type, _I woke up wearing a pink wristband._

_ I think the Boot used pink last night._

_ Awesome. Do you know anyone that was there?_

I get the exact reply that I expect. _Lol no._

And then, _The boot is for freshmen. Everyone was at Palms last night._

And then, _Blackout Tris has bad taste in bars._

I roll my eyes. _Very funny. Well at least now I have a clue._

And then to her never-ending credit, she replies, _I'll ask around and see if anyone I know was at Boot last night._

_Awesome, me too. Thanks Christina._

_ No problemo. Now get your hungover ass back in bed. _

**August, 2013**

"Is this English 101?"

I looked up from my notebook and just about fell out of my chair. In front of me was a dead ringer for Miles Teller. From his curly brown hair, pale skin and warm eyes, he might as well have walked right off a movie set.

"Ahh, yes," Professor Clinton replied. My freshman year English professor was a lanky, timid Southerner. He stumbled through introductions for the first five minutes of class, and his monologue didn't have any direction. I was just in the process of writing him off as a dud teacher when Miles Teller walked through the door.

"Why don't you take a seat? We were just about to start introductions." Miles Teller sauntered to his seat, and Clinton's eyes nervously flit around the room. "Would anyone, err, like to start? We'll just be going through names, hometowns, why you picked Tulane, what you hope to get out of this class…?

His words hung in the air. The awkwardness in the room was almost tangible, and it made me uncomfortable. So just to cut through the silence, I raised my hand and walked up to the front of the room.

"I'll start," I said. I looked like the stereotypical athlete, in between my running shorts and bright blue Adidas sneakers. "I'm Tris. I'm from South Orange, New Jersey, but hate admitting that with a burning passion. I chose Tulane because I wanted to get as far away from the East Coast as possible. And as far as what I want to get out of this class, I'm hoping to improve as a writer and to read some cool books."

_Because frankly, I'm an econ major and I really couldn't care less about this class, I just need to fulfill a requirement._ I would never actually say that, but that's what I thought.

We went down the line, and each introduction was more lackluster than the last. There wasn't a single English major in the room, since most Liberal Arts majors already took AP English in high school and therefore placed out of 101. _This should be easy, _I thought to myself. I didn't necessarily love the subject, but I was definitely good at it. And it looked like I wasn't going to be compared to any real writers.

Finally, we reached Miles Teller's doppelganger. He stood up at the front of the room, cleared his throat and said, "My name is Peter. I'm from Tampa, Florida. To be perfectly honest, I'm taking this class to fulfill a requirement." He looked the Professor Clinton dead in the eye as he said it. "I'm just hoping I'll get a good grade and see where it goes from there." And with that, he nodded his head and went back to his seat.

I sat back in my chair, amused by Peter. _That kid is an asshole, _I decided. _All _of us were there fulfill the requirement—he didn't need to be rude and shout it from the rooftops.

After class, I was texting Tobias when Peter approached me. "Hey, I didn't get the chance to catch you name—I'm Peter Hayes."

This was the first time I'd gotten to get a good, up-close look at him. Okay, so there were some deviations from Miles Teller's appearance. He was a little tanner, and definitely a little bulkier. He stuck out his hand, and I reluctantly shook it.

"Tris," I replied.

A smirk stretched across his face. "That's all I get?"

"Fine, Tris Prior." I rolled my eyes. The question came out of my mouth before I could stop it. "Do you ever get told that you look like Miles Teller?"

"Who?"

"Miles Teller, the actor?" He stared at me blankly. "21 and Over, Footloose, The Spectacular Now…?"

"Never heard of him."

I sighed, pulled out my phone and googled a picture of him. "Here," I handed him my phone, "That's him."

Peter examined the photo for a second, laughed and then handed my phone back to me. "I'm _way _better looking than that guy."

I rolled my eyes again, but secretly tried to suppress some laughter. _Okay, so he can be an asshole and funny at the same time, I guess._

"You said you were from Jersey, right?" he asks.

I nodded. "Hated every minute of it. Tampa?"

"Yep."

I cracked a smile. "My grandparents are from Sarasota."

He snorted. "Aren't everyone's?"

"Well, where are yours from?"

And somehow, I wound up walking and talking with Peter Hayes, all the way from the Academic Quad to the dining hall. He'd been an athlete in high school—football—but decided to give it up after an injury. Plus he wanted to "do the whole college thing." I talked about track, and my experience thus far on the Tulane team. And somehow, during the ten minutes it took us to walk from Dinwiddie to Bruff, Tobias never once came up. At least not until he went, "Do you want to grab lunch? I'm heading to Bruff right now."

I backtracked, and narrowed my eyes on him. _Of course. _I knew I wasn't anything gorgeous, but some guys thought I was fairly attractive. And Peter didn't strike me as the kind of person who was friendly for the sake of being friendly. He wanted something, and I had to make it very clear that he couldn't have it.

"I'm actually meeting my boyfriend for lunch," I said evenly.

Peter didn't flinch, or even show so much as a flicker of emotion. "Okay, cool. Let's make it a three-way."

My jaw dropped, and he burst out laughing. It _was _pretty amusing, so without really meaning to, I joined in. "I can't believe you said that."

He was having a difficult time breathing, in between all of the snorts and laughter coming out of his mouth. "The look on your face was priceless."

As if on cue, I received another text from Tobias. _Upstairs by the pasta station. _I jotted him a quick _"okay_" and then looked back to Peter.

"I should go. He's already upstairs waiting for me."

"Alright, sounds good." I turned on my heel to walk away. Just as my back was to him, he said, "Can I get your number or something?"

I turned back around. Jesus Christ, this kid had a lot of audacity. "I _told_ you," I said. I tried to sound firm and serious, but Peter had the goofiest expression on his face and it was impossible not to smile. "I have a boyfriend."

"What, so we can't be friends?"

I shook my head. "No."

"Really?" He crossed his arms. "Why not?"

I listed off the reasons in my head. _You're arrogant, rude, and can't take anything seriously. _But then without really meaning to, I listed off _funny, confident and smart_ as well.

So I reluctantly handed him my cell phone. "Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"

He punched his number in. "Because I'm going to be the best thing that ever happened to you."

He laughed after he said it, so it came out playfully. And I laughed along with him. "Yeah, right," I said.

If only I'd known.

**A/N: Huge thanks again to my wonderful beta Charlotte (aka flying-one) for her edits/advice.**

**Tease for next time: Track practice and another flashback.**

**xx Nina**


	3. Chapter Three: Track Practice and Boot

**Outside**

By Ninazadzia

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Track Practice and The Boot

* * *

**August, 2014**

Track practice is brutal in the summer months, especially in Louisiana. The sun relentlessly beats down my skin as I run laps around the City Park track. I internally swear out the Yulmans as Coach Peterson calls out my split. We used to have a shady, secluded track right on campus, until the Yulman family donated over a million dollars to Tulane University to have a football stadium erected. So this most recent summer, the track was bulldozed, and now we're forced to drive five miles out to City Park to do our track workouts. And it's unbearably _hot_.

I cross the finish line, stop my watch and pant heavily. It reads "2:38." My running buddy Lynn Salazar crosses the line a few seconds after I do. She doesn't acknowledge me, so I follow suit and try to keep my blood from boiling. Lynn and I were good friends before the incident; I wasn't as close to her as I am with Christina, but spent a fair amount of time together. She's much closer to Tobias than she ever was to me, so naturally she picked his side—and everyone on the distance team followed suit.

Everyone except for Susan Black. She comes in about fifteen seconds behind me, heaving heavily. She claps me on the back. "Good job, Tris," she manages.

"Thanks Suze." I wipe the sweat from my forehead, and reach down for my water bottle. I chug half a bottle, and unfortunately my thirst remains unquenched. All of the other girls were smart enough to bring Gatorade with them to practice. A few months ago, they would've gladly shared it with me.

"Here." Susan sticks a bottle of blue Gatorade in my direction. "You poor thing, you look like you're about to pass out."

"And we still have five more reps." I shake my head. "This workout is so awful."

Susan Black is the definition of a Southern Belle. Born and raised in Richmond, Virginia, she's one of the most popular girls in our grade—"Tulane famous," as we dub it—but in an entirely different way than Christina is. Christina is an in-your-face kind of gorgeous and has a wardrobe stocked with designer clothing. She's also a huge bitch if you get on her bad side, spends all of her spare cash on champagne and coke, and maintains a measly 2.6 GPA just so she can keep the Panhellenic minimum to stay in Kappa.

Susan, on the other hand, is the kind of girl you want to hate because she's so perfect. She's a varsity runner for our track and cross country team, is in at least five clubs, interns part time for the school's Athletic department, has a 3.8 GPA _in the Altman program_ (aka a full-scholarship business program where you take at least 20 credits per semester), and she's social chair Chi Omega, one of the other more popular sororities at our school. If she weren't so genuinely sweet, I would hate her.

She tightens the ponytail her strawberry blonde hair is in. "You're doing really well. I wish I could hit those times."

"Thanks," I say sheepishly. I _am _doing well—in fact these are the fastest splits I've ever hit for half-mile repetitions—but I feel awful. It's like I'm still hungover from Saturday's festivities. Or I stayed up too late studying for my accounting exam. Or it's just too early in the season for me to productively run a workout like this.

I decide to go with option three. "We shouldn't be doing an eight-hundred workouts until October at the earliest. It's barely September."

Susan opens her mouth to reply, and then an "oh-shit" expression crosses her face. As if on cue, I hear Coach Peterson say behind me, "Want to say that a little louder, Prior?"

I turn around, and am met with Coach Peterson's disappointed expression. _Fuck. _I have the worst timing.

Instead of sheepishly staring at the ground and muttering an apology, I stand my ground. "We're not even three weeks into the season. Shouldn't we be saving our legs for the championship races?"

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I can't help but feel bad. Coach Peterson is a really nice guy, but he doesn't know what he's doing. Last year, half our girls were injured by the time we reached Conferences, and the other half were exhausted. It's only his third year coaching cross-country, and we don't see eye-to-eye in terms of training philosophy.

"And when you're a coach, you can answer that question yourself," he replies. He clicks open his pen, and holds up his clipboard. He points to Susan and I. "Time?"

I grudgingly answer "2:38," and Susan tells him "2:53." He thanks us, tells us to get back on the line, and walks away. I'm about to call out to Lynn that we need to get started, but I look and see that she's already finished her first straightway. I groan. "Thanks a lot, bitch," I mutter under my breath.

Lynn runs with Lauren, a junior who runs nowhere near as fast as that Lynn does. I guess friendships trump practically during workouts, nowadays.

Susan gives me a sad smile. "They'll come around eventually," she offers.

Except they won't. I'm not like Susan, and neither are the rest of the girls on the team. We're all the same here—standoffish at first, trusting if you deserve it, and unforgiving if you screw up. It took me six months to build said trust with Lynn, and Lauren, and everyone else, and it all came crashing down last May.

_At least I have Susan,_ I think. So I tell her, "I guess," step up to the line, and begin my next rep.

* * *

**September, 2013**

Peter was extremely persistent those first few weeks. He made an effort to talk to me, although most of our conversations revolved around which parties we went to, what our English homework was, and the occasional not-so-joking insulting jab about my relationship with Tobias. Tobias' class schedule changed around that same time, so we stopped grabbing lunch together—and eventually, I caved and said "okay" when Peter asked (for easily the tenth time) whether or not I wanted to eat with him.

"So did your boyfriend cancel?" he asked.

"His schedule changed," I answered flatly.

"Damn. Here I was, thinking for a second that I made the cut," he smirked.

I rolled my eyes. "Well I figured I could use some mid-morning entertainment."

He smiled. "Oh, you think I'm entertaining?"

"Are you kidding? You it would be impossible not to laugh at the shit that comes out of your mouth."

He started cracking up, and I followed suit. "You know, you're not like the other girls here," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Really." He polished off what little was left of his milkshake. "They're all so dumb and fake. You're not. You tell it like it is."

I groaned. "Gee, thanks that sexist generalization about the female population at this school."

"I mean, it's true."

I shook my head. "No it's not. You're just not looking hard enough."

He didn't say anything for a little bit. Instead he opened his mouth like he was about to say something, and then thought better of it. "I guess you're right," he managed.

During my freshman year, the Boot was _the _place to spend a Friday night. Triple shot mixed drinks were five dollars until 10, and since I had a self-imposed curfew of midnight (thanks to 8 AM Sunday practices) and lived in the dorm across from the bar, I usually allowed myself that one night to go out. It was often a dark, sweaty grind-fest, with too-loud music and too many people, but if you went with the right friends it could be fun. I usually went out with a bunch of my teammates, because it was the only time we could get Tobias to go out with us, and to be perfectly honest, I didn't like drinking without him.

There was one weekend early in the school year when Susan, Lynn, and Marlene—a friend of Lynn's from high school who wasn't on the team—dragged me out of my dorm to go out. Tobias was staying in because he had an exam that Monday. I lied and said that I was hitting the hay early because I didn't want to rub him the wrong way.

I would run into Peter almost every time I went out on Fridays. He usually wouldn't offer me any more than a wave and a smile, because Tobias would always have his arm snaked around my waist. During that weekend, he saw me with no Tobias in tow, and he smiled as if it was the best surprise he'd gotten all night.

"_Tris! _My girl!" He waved for me to come over. Normally I would stick with my friends, but Marlene had already broken off to go hookup with someone in her Spanish class named Uriah—who would later become her boyfriend—and this automatically put Lynn in a pissy mood. So I excused myself and weaved my way through the crowd, where Peter was waiting for me with a bear hug.

"How's your night going?" he screamed over Calvin Harris' "Sweet Nothing."

"It's alright," I shout back. "How about yourself?"

"Me? Oh, I'm great! I'm fucked up! How about you?" He laughed. "You seem _super_ sober right now."

I shrugged. "It's fine."

"Do you want me to buy you a drink?" I started objecting, and he rolled his eyes and clamped a hand over my mouth. "Too late, I'm already on it."

I expected him to order me one of the sugar-sweet cocktails that I despise, but to his credit, he asked the bartender for an Abita strawberry—a local light-brew beer that happened to be my go-to drink. He handed it to me, and I gave him a glare. "How did you know?"

"Know what?"

I pointed to the bottle in my hand. "This is my favorite drink. How'd you know?"

He shrugged. "I just guessed. You seem like a beer girl."

We started talking, but I could barely hear a word of what he was saying. That and Peter's words was slurring, and if he needed to puke I would much rather have him do it at my dorm than the on-campus bar. "It's way too loud in here," I shouted to him. "You want to hang in my dorm for a little? I have beer in my room."

"Sounds sick!" He chugged what was left of him Long Island, set it down on the bar, and lead me outside.

Harmless small talk ensued; it turned out Peter had service learning at seven the next morning, but that wasn't going to stop him from going out and staying up late. "I'm invincible!" he shouted into the night. He turned to me. "Nothing's gonna stop me from getting trashed."

I rolled my eyes and suppressed some laughter. "Hopefully you saved some room for beer. I don't want you puking my bathroom."

He jabbed my arm with his finger. "No promises, Tris," he said, cackling with laughter.

I checked my watch, and it was around eleven. "I'm kicking you out in an hour," I tell him, as I swipe him into my dorm.

"Ooh. Sexy time with Tobias?" he wiggled his eyebrows.

I shook my head. "More like eight AM practice."

"Right," Peter said, "You're a track star. Sorry, Pete-dick tends to forget important details."

I raised an eyebrow. "Pete-dick?" I asked.

"Yeah. My drunk alter ego." We're walking up the stairs to my second floor dorm at this point. "When I'm shit faced I become a huge asshole," he explains, "Thus, _Pete-dick."_

I literally laughed out loud. "You're lucky you're funny, Peter. Otherwise we wouldn't be friends."

"That's Mr. Pete-dick to you, sweetheart," he said. We stepped outside and onto my dorm's balcony. "Holy shit, this dorm is so nice."

"I know, it's brand new—do you wanna hang on the balcony? We can't drink in the common rooms, if we get caught we're fucked."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Lady."

I rolled my eyes and pulled up two chairs together, and motioned for Peter to sit in one. "Hang tight for a minute, I'll be right back."

I make sure to give Peter a lighter brew, since he was already pretty drunk and I didn't want to babysit him if I didn't need to. I was at a comfortable buzz, so I figured I could afford something a little stronger. I sat back down, and we started talking, and it didn't stop. Peter decided at around three-thirty that if he went to bed, he wasn't going to be able to get back up. And since my midnight curfew was already botched, we wound up pulling an all-nighter. The first hour consisted of Peter making fun of me, mostly for being "such a fucking nerd," as he put it, but partially for my relationship choices. And then the conversation turned to his manwhorish capacities.

"I've never had a girlfriend," he explained. "Like, literally, I've only ever done hooking up. I haven't even been on a real date before."

I raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

"I know, I know, it's a shocker that someone _this_ dashingly handsome doesn't go on dates."

I rolled my eyes. "You're such a cocky little shit."

Peter always lets the insults roll off his back with good humor. So we started laughing, and didn't stop for a while. And when it finally subsided, he looked me in the eye and quietly said, "Tris." He took my hands in his. "I'm going to be really honest with you right now, okay?"

And suddenly my heart was racing, and all I could say was, "Okay."

I had an idea of what he was going to say before the words came out of his mouth. "Thing is, at this school, there are two types of girls; four-through-sevens, and taken tens. _You, _for example, are a taken ten. I don't want to date anyone right now, and I absolutely had to, it would have to be a ten. I'm not going to accept anything less than that." He took a swig of beer. "So for the time being, I'm going settle for my less attractive hook ups."

I felt some color run to my face. The topic of conversation didn't make me uncomfortable—my opinions on sex are pretty liberal. The fact that he called me a "taken ten," however…

"Well, speaking as someone in a pretty sex-less relationship, I'll admit that I'm jealous," I said.

He shrugged. "At least you have something meaningful. God, I've slept with so many people it's not even funny."

_Can't say that's too surprising. _"I'm sure it's not that many."

He raised an eyebrow. "Does fifteen sound like a lot to you?"

"You've slept with fifteen people?!"

"Hey, it didn't mean anything! It was glorified masturbation!" He groaned. He was so drunk that his words were slurring. He leaned in, and took my hand. "You're the only cool girl here that I've met so far. So many of the girls here, it's just like, they're so snotty and fake and annoying. But you're not like that. You're a friend, so what I need to tell you, and what I'm going to ask you—" he burped, "—is going to be asked and told as a _friend,_ okay?"

"Okay," I replied softly.

_Dear God is he drunk._

"Because the truth is, I think you're beautiful. And you're cool—actually, you're the kind of girl that I'm going to marry one day. Your boyfriend is the luckiest guy in the world." Our conversation was too intense for my liking, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't intrigued to know what he would say next. "And I really, _really _want to hook up with you, like it's all I want in the world right now. But I'm fighting it really hard because you have a boyfriend, and you're my friend, and if I fuck that up for you then I'm never going to forgive myself."

"Peter—"

"I just need to make sure of something, okay?" he continued. He looked her dead in the eye. "Do you love him?"

I thought about it for a minute. Did I?

"Yes," I decided

"What do you love about him?"

_Because he was the best I could do in high school and is probably the best I could here, and if I needed to find someone else, I wouldn't have the energy to do it._ "He gets me," I said. "We're exactly the same—hard workers, talented athletes, good students. We want to make something of ourselves. Plus, we've been together for years. Not many people our age have genuine relationships," I explained. "I'm lucky."

He nodded slowly, and didn't say anything for a minute.

"Was that good enough for you?" I asked.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Do you want another beer?"

He checked his watched and snickered. "It's, what, four in the morning? I _need_ one."

**A/N: Sorry for the delay with this chapter! I hope y'all enjoyed. Tease for next time: more Christina and an awkward 2014 run-in with Peter.**

**xx Nina**


	4. Announcement

_**YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WHUDDUP BITCHES.**_

Wow this is surreal, never thought I'd update this fic again. But here I am, a full year after the completion of _Distractions_, here to bring you guys an announcement.

I'm currently procrastinating studying for finals at my university (ten cyber!cookies if you can guess which school I go to), so forgive me if I sound like a rambling idiot because I'm currently running on two hours of sleep.

I've been on fanfiction for six years, and over that time, the best reader/author connections I've made have been during my time writing Peter/Tris in the _Divergent_ fandom. Your guys' unconditional support and kindness has been so valuable to me, and this Christmas I really wanted to thank you guys.

During the month of December, I will be posting twelve Peter/Tris fanfictions from December 13th all the way up until Christmas day. Here's our lineup:

_**Dec. 13 – **_An update of _What Kind of Man_

_**Dec. 14**_ – _Hello, _an angst-fest inspired by the Adele song

_**Dec. 15**_ – _Heavy Dirty Soul_, sex/drugs/rock and roll one-shot inspired by twenty one pilots

_**Dec. 16**_ – _The Christmas Misadventures of Peter and Cato_, a _Hunger Games _and _Divergent _Christmas parody

_**Dec. 17**_ – _Never Let Me Go__**, **_a series of drabbles inspired by the Florence + the Machine song

_**Dec. 18**_ – An update of _Outside_

_**Dec. 19**_ – _Holding On To You_, a canon character study of Peter Hayes

_**Dec. 20**_ – _The Hills_, straight-up smut, inspired by The Weeknd

_**Dec. 21**_ – _Peter and Tris Discover Fanfiction_, another parody and a tribute to my favorite Peter/Tris authors

_**Dec. 22**_ – Your choice! Send in your prompts and then I'll pick my favorite one

_**Dec. 23**_ – _Mountain Sound_, a Peter and Tris take on the zombie apocalypse, Walking Dead inspired

_**Dec. 24**_ – _Sweet Nothing_, a one-shot in which Four and Peter place a bet on who can deflower Tris first

And, finally,

_**Dec. 25**_ – _Preconceived Notions_, a sequel to _Distractions_

So, between now and December 13th, please please _please_ send me prompt suggestions, and feel free to send as many as you want! PM me or leave it in the reviews, whichever is easiest for you. I really want to hear from as many of you as possible, so I'm going to post this announcement on all of my other Peter/Tris multis, and sometime in the next week I'll pick my five favorite prompts, post them in the poll on my profile and have you guys vote on which one you want to see the most.

So, until December 13th—best of luck to all of you on your finals/holiday shopping/travelling/whatever, and I can't wait for you all to see this project. I've been working on it for a while now, and I'm so excited to see what y'all think.

xx Nina


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